


Epistolary

by TheOCDDI (TooHotchInTheHottub)



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Imagination, Letter, M/M, Miles knows all, Pre-Slash, Secret Admirer, Silly Boys, Wet Chandler, a bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooHotchInTheHottub/pseuds/TheOCDDI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small drabble to apologise for my ongoing tardiness in getting 'Atropos Unlaced' Up and running.</p><p>Joe has a secret admirer. One who can write a hell of a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Joe tucked the waste paper basket under his arm. He looked quickly at the glass doors to ensure that he was alone and began his slow progress around the Incident Room. Miles had cleared his desk, as had Meg. Joe suspected that Meg had done so by carefully tidying her things while Miles had dumped his mess on top of Mansell's. The crisp packets and jelly bean wrappers were covered by some half-used, vaguely official paperwork with Miles' close, even block letters announcing the activities he aimed to complete during the day. Joe picked the top sheaf up and used it to shovel the lolly wrappers into the bin. Last time he had cleared away the ghosts of Mansell's appetite, Joe had put his hand into a sticky patch. The ensuing frantic rush to the bathroom had undone the zen he had been trying to acquire. Joe turned and stopped at Kent's desk. Every item on it was in uniform order, all edges parallel to the corners of the desk - except for a single uneven pile of paperwork, the top file on a 45 degree angle to the ones below. It seemed to have been left just so that Joe would have something to do.  
  
Joe tried not to think about it, or what it might signify, while he crooked an index finger and righted the file.  
  
Instead he placed the bin gently on the linoleum floor and retreated to his office.  
  
The mail had been delivered earlier in the day, but Joe hadn't found the time to sort through it. Despite the fact that the hour hand on the ticking clock to his left was nudging the eleven, Joe sat down and began sifting through the correspondence. He sighed at the first interdepartmental memo, scrunching his nose at the same officious, smarmy claptrap that he had once so easily spouted. Joe shook his head at and moved on, his embarrassment at his past-self spurring him to shuffle through the entire pile. As he did, a heavy, hand-written envelope caught his eye.

_Joe_

The simple address wasn't accompanied by any postmark. The letter had been hand-delivered. Joe puzzled at it for a while before he finally opened it, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 

_My love,_

_Unsolicited but undeniable - my feelings for you._   
  


_I know that this missive will take you by surprise, and that the revelations herein would probably surprise no-one but yourself, but I think about you in any spare moment. Particularly when it's peaceful. Some mornings I imagine what you look like as the day begins; sleep-rumpled and waiting for the kettle to boil. Do you shuffle impatiently on bare feet? Run a hand through tufted hair? Would you turn your head as I emerged from the bedroom, and smile a greeting, or croak one out, a crease from the pillow marring a stubbled cheek? Would your irises be duller in the morning light?_

_I lie in bed, listening to morning unfurl around me, hoping that one day you could be there beside me. Would you hook your ankle over mine in the night, sleepily reassuring yourself that I'm still there? Do you sleep on your stomach?_

_I like to picture you there, sheets messily hugging your waist, your strong arms tucked under the pillow; the expanse of your back and shoulders on display - inviting myriad kisses. What if I bent down to oblige? What if my breath on the back of your neck woke you? Your sleepy arms would enfold me. Chapped lips would meet mine as we pressed together. Your morning firmness would press into my belly while your hands, no longer framing my face would begin a gentle migration over the goosefleshed angles of my body. Perhaps an alarm would prompt a search for friction - would drive you to let the savagery of wanting overcome the tired contentment of the embrace. Would your hand flatten on my back, dip beneath the sheets and ghost teasingly over the sensitive swell of my arse, gently squeezing before it found itself busy with the proof of my own lust? I'd say your name then, your hands sending shivers through me, your cock hard-pressed against my thigh. You might pin me down then, sliding over me so that our shafts align and our hips keep a tantalising rhythm. That's when I'd suck your tongue or bite my lip - to stop myself from begging._

_Begging to feel you inside me._

_Begging you to stay._

_Begging you to take my paper heart into your hands and not let it crumple._

_Begging you to look down at the sad offering my heart would make and find it acceptable._

_I'd beg you to love me in every possible way._

 

 _You make a cynic like me want to believe, Joe._  
I see divinity in the planes of your body.  
I could write gospels about the quiet draw of your breath.  
The tread of your feet are like psalms.

 

_But I don't yet have faith._

_Faith that one such as you could love me back._

_Faith that if you did, I could ever be enough._  
  
So I come to you as timid ink, sunken into cowardly paper, instead of in the flesh to tell you.

 

_I_ _love you so much it scares me._

_Always yours. x_

 

Joe nudged the paper so that the bottom edge was in line with the lip of the desk. The action was intended to give him a chance to catch his breath. When it didn't suffice, Joe began smoothing out the paper with flattened palms - still trying to remember how to breathe. He sat like this as the wall clock struck tiny hammer blows, keeping time with the heartbeat in his ears.

Joe tried to dispel the flashes that the letter had conjured in his mind's-eye. Flashes of narrow waists, pale skin, curly hair and brown eyes. 

The letter had let Joe's imagination out of its carefully constructed prison, allowing Joe to share in the vision laid out in looping handwriting before him. Only he saw a crumpled black three-piece suit beside the bed in his own apartment, and imagined Kent's too-red lips tracing a lazy, unintelligible pattern down his spine.

He imagined Kent had been the one to write such things, and wished they had been whispered to him in gentle tones.

Finally Joe could stand the emptiness of the station no longer. He tucked the letter into the breast pocket of his coat and fled into the night, leaving the pile of mail in an untidy sprawl on his blotter.


	2. Rebuttal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe can't sleep after reading the letter. 
> 
> The only solution is to pen his reply. If only to clear his head enough to get to sleep.

Joe was out of bed, listening to the garbled sounds of sleeping London. The letter had sent his thoughts reeling, he had to contend with fly-away thoughts of a very intimate nature, a crushing self-doubt, a more practical internal monologue concerning MET regulations and the fact that his desire and his admirer might not match up. He had foregone dinner in favour of scrubbing his already immaculate oven, had showered and found himself in bed at a bit after midnight.   
  


At first he had settled for throwing the covers off, only to hitch them back up moments later. He'd pulled at his t-shirt for a while, trying in vain to make it sit in such a way that he suddenly felt comfortable in his own skin. He'd ended up shucking it off, slipping it back on again and finally hurling it across the room towards one of the darkened corners of his bedroom.

Not even the knowledge that there was a crumpled shirt so out-of-place in his otherwise perfectly ordered flat could banish the memory of those words on paper.  
  
The letter was still folded neatly and tucked inside the breast pocket of his coat. It hung by the front door like a sentry. Joe wasn't sure whether that thought was comforting or not. However he felt about it, its very existence had haunted him, it seemingly called to him from across the flat.

Eventually, as the clock beside his bed read 2:43, Joe had given up the pretence of sleep altogether, opting instead to wear a new shirt, putting the old one from the corner in the hamper where it belonged, and stood in his bathroom, having a long, hard look at himself. The Joseph Chandler in the mirror seemed as confused as he was, wondering what anyone could see in this pallid, tired face of his. Joe had always thought that his face had only two settings, cool aloofness and deer-in-the-headlights. He regarded himself seriously, eyes squinting, brow furrowed and lips pursed.  
  
It certainly didn't help. He looked awful.

After some time like this, frustrated with himself, Joe twisted the cold tap and splashed cold water on his face. He dried himself roughly, and didn't look at himself again before he left the bathroom.   
  
He also avoided his reflection in the darkened windows while he padded through the flat, making a beeline for the coat hanging by the front door.

Joe had decided that there was only one way he could possibly hope to get any sleep at all. He found some paper in the drawer next to the fridge, took the pen from beside the telephone and settled at the kitchen bench to write a reply. Joe's even print picked out his response. It wasn't pretty or poetic, but it was true.  
 _And isn't that all that matters?_ Joe mused.

 

_For my unknown admirer,_

_I find it strange to imagine that anyone would ever waste time thinking of me- at least in any positive way._   
_I will admit that your letter has thrown me. I don't understand what you could be seeing. I even looked. Just now. I stood staring at myself in the bathroom mirror for some time, until I realised that I was being ridiculous._   
  
_I am a ridiculous man. Have you noticed?_

_I wonder who you are. I've examined the letter - certain markers indicated a male voice, even before that sensual confirmation, but the letters look as though they were formed by a feminine hand. They look familiar but foreign at the same time._

_In the spirit of your commendable honesty, perhaps I should make my own confession. I mean, I never intend to show this letter to anyone - it's merely an attempt to still my thoughts long enough to sleep, so what's the harm?_

_When I read those beautiful, terrifying words, I hoped that they had been penned by one particular man._

_I would ask my own questions._

_Do you speak gently?_

_Are you tentative around your peers, as though you don't think you belong?_

_Are your eyes a delicate brown?_

_Are they soft and earnest, but sharp - as though built for policing?_

_Is your hair inky black?_   
_Tight curls, largely tamed by gel, offsetting your pale complexion?_

_Do you have a tight-lipped smile?_   
_One only distinguishable from a shy grimace because when you smile, your eyes are alight?_

_I find my hands drift through the air and seek this man out. I usually settle for a reassuring pat on the shoulder. I'm sure I already mentioned - I am a ridiculous man._   
_Afterwards I have to retreat, lest I give into the temptation to push a stray hair out of his face or trace the sensuous curve of his bottom lip with my thumb._

_My eyes seek him out, even in a letter I see him between the lines._

_But I have no idea how to tell him._

_Or even if I should._

_I could only hurt him, in the end._

_(I can't even bring myself to write his name down now.)_   
  
_I am ridiculous._

 

_Joe._

 

Joe abandoned the paper to the kitchen. He felt the heaviness of insistent sleep tugging at his shoulders and he knew that now, he would sleep.

 

And if he quietly mouthed Kent's name as he turned over, half asleep, snuggling into his pillow, well, that wasn't hurting anyone, was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that this will end up being four chapters, however, as the actual structure is still being formulated in my head, it could be five... probably not six. Probably.


	3. Chapter Three: Writer's Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent worries at Joe's behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I meant. 
> 
> Emerson refused to talk to me (contrary bastard that he is.)

Joe found himself staring at the same square inch of his blotter for the fourteenth time since the shift started, but couldn’t quite manage to stop.

Kent watched it happen from his desk. He couldn’t help the stab of regret or the sting of disappointment – he should have known better than to listen to Erica.

_They’d been sitting in her tiny kitchen. Kent had been staring over his wineglass at the yellow wall behind her – he hated those bloody walls – and tried not to listen to what Erica was saying.  
She tended to make sense somewhere towards the bottom of the second bottle, and they had arrived there some time ago. In fact, now she was heaving herself up in search of the third, decidedly crappier, bottle of wine she had tucked away for just such an occasion._

_“It’s genius. At worst he gets it, is confused for a bit, and then gets over it. At best he wakes up, sees what is in front of him, and you finally get some, Sunshine.”_

_“Erica. I’m not fifteen anymore. I’m an adult. I don’t pen secret admirer letters.”_

_“No, you just pine and make goo-goo eyes at your boss… y’know, like an adult.”_

_It was true, but he didn’t have to hear it. Instead, he decided on a different tack._

_“He knows my handwriting. And you can’t type a letter like that.”_

_“You write it, I’ll transcribe it.”_

_He knew it was a bloody awful idea. He knew it, but if he was anything, it was suggestible with a whole bottle of Australian wine in his gut._

_“That stuff would be… personal.”_

_“Em’, she looked a little hurt, ‘we shared a womb, and you don’t want to share this?”_

_“What if it gets smutty?”_

_“Smuttier than your… blow by blow account of that weekend away with your footy mate? Or was it mates?”_

_“Look, you only turn nineteen once.”_

_“You were twenty-two”_

_“I meant him. He wanted to celebrate.”_

_“After that orgiastic getaway, you don’t trust me with your feelings for someone that you probably lo-“_

_“Don’t say it.”_

_“One of us has to.”_

In the end he had relented, not because she was right, not because he thought it would work, but because his own inaction had begun to grate on his nerves. He had gone home, suffered the hangover the only way he knew how – in bed with the blinds drawn - and the next day, had set about writing his feelings down. Three days after their late-night strategy meeting, Kent had delivered his letter to her, putting it into her hand without a word then retreating to his orange moped. Two days later it arrived under the door to his flat. It had remained in the top drawer of Kent’s work desk until Kent decided that he could no longer risk its discovery by Mansell.

And now it appeared that Chandler had read it, and was unimpressed. He’d already had an all-caps text conversation with Erica about it, until Miles – also well aware of Chandler’s demeanour - had sent him a side-eyed glare, fed up with the vibrations from his phone every few minutes. Kent had had to settle for watching the DI from behind a pile of paperwork. They hadn’t had a call-out all week, instead they were dealing with their future court appearances and any backlog of forms and memoranda they may have missed while trying to do their jobs. The mood had been tense to begin with, and as Miles’ jaw hardened, Kent knew that a conversation was inevitable. He just hadn’t known that he would be on the receiving end of it.

“He’s behaving strangely today.” Miles murmured, in the way he did when he didn’t want a suspect to know that they were being properly interrogated. Kent had been in the squad too long to fall for it. And he knew that they both knew it.

“Even for him.” Kent tried to seem nonchalant. But, Miles knew Kent’s tricks too, and no-one played the wide-eyed innocent quite so well as the youngest DC.

So they sat, watching each other through the impasse, until Miles seemed to give it up for a bad job, and with a grunt, abandoned Kent in favour of walking to Chandler’s office.    

“You havin’ a wobble?”

Joe startled, his thoughts had taken him out of the office, and Miles’ voice had brought him reeling back.

“No. I’m fine”

“Right. You look it.” Miles took a seat and waited. Joe sat with his palms flat on the desk and directed his gaze somewhere just under Ray’s left ear.

“You know you haven’t even picked up a pen in the last hour or so?”

“You can’t have had much to do if you can watch me so intently.”

“You are off today.”

“I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Miles merely raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be fine tomorrow, I said. Now get back to work, Miles.”

They both knew that Miles hated being dismissed, and Joe hated doing it, but in the interests of peace, Miles left without another word.

Joe watched him go and thought of the letters, both of them, sitting beside his fridge. He had been gripped by a thought about half an hour after arriving at work. He imagined that somehow, someone had gotten into his apartment. This person had discovered the correspondence and had removed it – far from the safety of his flat. He thought now, at this very moment they could have somehow ended up in Ed’s archive. Maybe the rotund archivist was reading them now… everyone would know his secret.

It was a ridiculous series of thoughts – especially since Joe had been sure not to provide a name, but once they started, Joe was powerless to stop them leaping over each other in his head. Now he was just counting down until he could leave, until he could ensure the letters were still in his home. Until he could ensure they would not fall into someone else’s hands.

Joe had toyed with the idea of burning them, but had decided against it. A selfish part of him wanted to re-read the words. So, he had decided that both missives would stay safely tucked into his breast pocket. Somewhere that he could maintain control.

At the end of shift, he was out of the room as quickly as possible. The rest of the team watched him all but run from the building with some confusion.

The next day, true to his word, Chandler was his usual self.

And the day after that.

Indeed, Chandler was so collected that Miles had almost forgotten Joe’s behaviour, and Kent had convinced himself that Chandler had thought the letter nothing more than a bad joke from Mansell.

Until about eight weeks later.  
Until the day that Joe ended up in the Thames.

They’d been so close to closing the case – the suspect in several aggravated assaults had been identified, and the team had been executing a search warrant when he had returned from the shops. A course exclamation was followed by the unmistakeable sound of Tesco’s bags hitting the pavement. Then he had been off. Joe and the team had been bringing evidence out. Joe hadn’t even thought, he just gave chase.

And wound up in the river.

He had gone under a couple of times, their suspect trying to use him as a flotation device until one of Joe’s right hooks had put his lights out. By then Joe was tired and had a lung full of brown river water. He had been pulled out of the water. Kent had stood beside Miles, his face paler than usual, his eyes watery and his mouth set in a way that showed he had no idea what to do. As the ambulance took Joe and their waterlogged criminal away, Miles had handed Kent Chandler’s jacket.

“I’m not sure he’ll want any of it back after that tumble, but someone should dry it out just in case, yeah?”

Now Kent was sat in his flat, Chandler’s phone recuperating in a bucket of rice, his jacket in the washing machine, and the contents of the pockets in a mushy heap in front of him.

Seeing his letter again had been a surprise.

Seeing the second had been a bigger one, and as he sat with the hair dryer aimed at them both, Kent had to fight his urge to unfold the notepaper and see what Joe had to say.

He wasn’t sure he’d be strong enough to resist.

But, then again, that was the effect Chandler had on him, wasn’t it?

 


	4. Chapter Four: Revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is nowhere near the level of editing I would normally want, but it's passable, and I wanted to post something.
> 
> Also, it is much longer than usual, and I'm happy with the quality of actual writing.
> 
> I should be writing an essay on the cold war right now.
> 
> Let me know if you like the direction the boys are heading in.

The rain buffeted the bedroom window. Kent was picking his way, not for the first time, through a noir detective novel. He figured it was strange that he loved Philip Marlowe so much – not just because of his own chosen profession - but because of the character’s rather dim view of policemen in general.  He shrugged the thought off, like he always did, and continued reading.

_A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window._

That sentence stopped Kent dead. He thought of Joe. Kent put the dog-eared novel face-down on the bedside table and picked up his tea. He sipped at it, just as he realised that the rain outside had made his room cooler than he thought; he discovered his choice of boxer-briefs and nothing else seemed impractical. He was torn between getting out of bed and putting on a shirt and… not.

Laziness had almost prevailed when Kent heard a knocking at the front door.

Kent frowned. It was a bit after midnight.

The knock repeated, this time with some insistence.

Kent didn’t remember the floorboards under his feet, but he was downstairs and opening the door before he had really registered any movement. He did, however, register what was on the other side of it.

Joe Chandler stood wild-eyed and dishevelled. His blonde hair spiked up by more than the rain. Had he had the ability to analyse the scene, Kent would have blamed it on nerves. He would have explained the open shirt collar and lack of coat and tie the same way. He could have done a multitude of things if he hadn’t noticed that Joe’s white dress shirt was soaked through, his shoulders and chest were now pressed against see-through cotton. They shifted nervously as Joe tried to speak.

“Kent…”

The words were choked out. Ragged and worn already; the single syllable a burst bubble in the air between them. Joe looked like he was about to hyperventilate, his chest rising and falling in a tempo faster than the rain. He eased out a long and shaky breath as his eyes slid away from Kent’s face and took in the DC’s bared flesh.

The look that passed between them when Joe eventually remade eye contact was positively obscene.

That was when Kent understood.

“You found my second letter,” he breathed out.

* * *

  
It was the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum that finally coaxed Joe out of his sleep. Enhanced by the slight itch in his right wrist and the antiseptic sting of a hospital ward, the sound dragged Joe into the realm of the living.

“There he is. ‘ad enough beauty sleep, sir?” Miles asked from the plastic chair beside the bed.

In response Joe groaned and looked around the room. It was tiny and bare, unless one counted gruff Sergeants as decoration. There wasn’t even the perfunctory ‘art’ on the wall. No simple metallic frame around something that could be a landscape or could be abstract but was definitely and unashamedly bad. The walls were that governmental swamp colour that provoked no positive emotions, and the blinds were drawn, making the already depressing room dingier.

_No wonder Kent hates hospitals_ Joe thought briefly before he realised that the silence in the room was an expectant one.

Miles had asked him a question. But Joe was relatively sure it was meant to be rhetorical.

“What time is it?” he asked, his voice slipping out dry and powdery.

“Almost half-eleven…”

Joe nodded. Not so bad.

“On Wednesday morning.”

_Oh_.

He had been asleep for just under twenty hours.

“If you wanted a dip, you should’ve said. We could’ve at least ‘ad your trunks ready.”

“What about -?”

“The villain? He’s down the hall, drying out. He’ll be booked down the station sometime tonight, I imagine.”

“And my - ”

“Young Kent has been seein’ to dryin’ out your phone, and your other belongings. He should be by at about lunch time to drop off whatever was salvageable.”

Joe sunk back into his pillows, everything was fine.

Until a minute later when it wasn’t.

“Umm… Miles…”

Miles looked up from the crossword expectantly.

“Would you mind… I, uh, I need…” Joe gestured vaguely towards the small bathroom attached to the room.

“Oh. Right. I’ll, uh, I’ll get a cup of tea.”

Joe tentatively pulled back the baby-blue blankets and got to his feet. He was sure to do so slowly, he didn’t want to risk a tumble. His feet seemed unsure of how to act in this situation. One felt heavy, while the other twitched impatiently. Joe wrapped his right hand around the IV stand, ensuring that the thin tube snaking from the almost-empty bag of clear liquid to his hand wasn’t tangled and tried to steer his new metallic companion towards the bathroom. The infernal contraption seemed to possess a mind of its own – one incapable of simple, forward motion. The tiny wheels behaved like independent, distracted children, and so the next direction it was going to take was never clear. It just happened.  
  
It reminded Joe of a bloke he went to university with. Sebastian would, whenever Joe tried to orienteer their way through city streets after a night out, sling his arm over Joe’s shoulders and he would be incapable of following Joe’s lead. Seb would stop for cats, to stare at the stars, to try to find a word that he had misplaced half-way through a rambling story, and once, once he’d stopped to kiss Joe. It had been wonderful, but Joe had known that Sebastian was in no state to be making such offers, and Joe was in no state to accept them. So, he had said as much and waited.

Once he’d sobered up, Sebastian had feigned ignorance, and they’d drifted apart after that.

But Joe’s new, inanimate companion didn’t attempt any amorous entanglements – indeed, somehow, Joe had avoided any form of entanglements at all during his short but eventful journey. His feet found cold tile and he switched on the light and shut the door.

Once his primary business was concluded, Joe stood at the sink and washed his hands. The IV stand, newly christened Tristan in Joe’s mind, also got a rub down where Joe’s hand had rested when moving between the toilet and the sink. Then Joe took the opportunity to look at himself.

It was a mistake.

The man who stared back at him was pale, much paler than he should have been. A shadow of a beared peeped through his usually clean-shaven chin. He had dark rings under his eyes and his hair was at once plastered down and sticking up – depending on which particular spot you chose to focus on. His hospital gown had slid down, his left shoulder exposed. A large bruise bloomed there, below it, three smaller ones were visible on his bicep. Long and thin, they had been left when the suspect had grappled with him. Suddenly, Joe felt a flutter of fear in his gut.

_I almost drowned_ , he thought.  
_Just like my father._

It was at this point a familiar compulsion took over, the fear had provoked a full episode. Joe pushed down on the soap dispenser, the liquid a garish pink puddle in his palm, and began scrubbing his hands. His digits slid over each other, bubbling and foaming. Then he moved up, working on his wrists and back down. When he reached his fingertips again he headed all the way back to his elbows, pausing only to push down on the soap dispenser. The needle in his wrist was pulled so tight that he hissed in pain, but Joe kept going. The sleeves of the hospital gown had halted the upward movement of his ministrations, so Joe pulled it over his head and threaded it through the towel rack and continued. There was badly scented foam all over his arms and torso, his mind blank, and the dispenser had run empty a while ago, but Joe kept pushing down on the machine anyway. It was all part of the ritual.

He lost track of time.

“I ‘ope you’re not havin’ a wobble.” Miles’ voice was gruff, and was preceded by a utilitarian knock.

“You ‘aven’t been awake for long enough for all that, and Kent is here with your things,” he continued.

It was like a switch had been flipped, Joe stopped and looked at himself.

“I’ll be out in a minute…” he called back, then he pulled paper towel from the dispenser, and sluiced all the bubbles off his skin. The water and the air had started to make him shiver, so putting the gown back on was an unexpected relief. He pulled himself together, gripped Tristan with as much confidence as he could muster and strode back into the room.

“Skip said you were up and about, sir.” Kent smiled. He had put Joe’s folded coat on the table and was slightly straightening it, ensuring it sat at right angles to the edges of the desk. Joe and Miles joined him beside the table, Joe casting an appraising eye over the collection of things.

“It’s all here, except your phone, that’s still at my place, submerged in a bucket of rice.”

“Rice?” Joe asked, a little too loudly. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Kent already.

“According to several people and Google, that was the best course of action. Something about rice being absorbent….”

Joe hummed in response. His left hand had extended to carefully pick up the jar of tiger balm, his right continued to grip Tristan. He was flanked by Miles and Kent and he simply placed the jar down again, twisting it in place before he let it go. It must have looked strange, three grown men crowded around a table, two in suits, one in a backless hospital gown – but there was no-one there to see, so it probably didn’t count.

“This is just my coat.” Joe finally noted.

“Nurses. Whenever they are confronted with an unconscious copper, they reach straight for the scissors,” Miles explained.

“Those were my favourite trousers.”

Miles snorted. Kent looked a little mournful.

“When am I getting out of here?”

“Doc said something about this afternoon.”

“What am I going to wear?”

“Young Kent could probably grab something from yours. If you don’t mind.”

Joe didn’t know what to say, the idea of Kent going through his closet seemed… intimate, so he didn’t say anything at all.

“It’s fine,’ Kent said eventually, ‘you probably don’t want me poking around your flat.”

“No, it’s not a problem,’ Joe said, because it wasn’t, not really, ‘I uh, I just… If you don’t mind. I’d appreciate it.”

Kent smiled. Miles, totally unnoticed by either of them, rolled his eyes with impunity. Tristan did what he had done throughout the whole conversation – been an IV stand – so he didn’t notice that Joe’s grip had tightened slightly when Kent had looked up at him and smiled.

“It’s not a problem. You don’t want to go home in a hospital gown.”

Joe looked down at himself, smoothing the fabric over his chest with his left hand.

“No, I suppose not… It’s not really my, uh, colour, is it?”

Kent smiled, ‘I think it’s the cut more than anything else.”

“Yeah, why don’t you give us a spin, sir, I hear the real statement piece is in the back.” Miles interrupted. There was only so long he could let this go on for, he’d been down this road before with the oblivious idiots, and it lead to nowhere. He wanted to end it.

It was effective. Joe cleared his throat and stepped back, the backs of his legs now pressed up against the bed. Kent looked to his shoes, a blush staining his porcelain temples.

“Yes, well, um, you’ll need the keys, Kent.”

Kent eagerly took the momentum offered by the words, not happy to flounder in his own embarrassment; he reached for the rest of the pile.

“Would you like me to take all of it, or would you like your coat this afternoon, sir?”

“Take it, please.”

“Did you want anything specific from yours, sir?”

“I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.”

Kent merely looked pleased, nodded his goodbye and left. Joe didn’t watch him leave. He absolutely didn’t, which is why it was so mystifying when he had to look away from the door when Miles spoke to him next.

“You’re both mad.” Miles shook his head.

There seemed to be something in the way Miles had said it, so Joe turned his head slightly to take in the grizzled DS. He didn’t get to ask the half-formed question he had lodged in his mouth because a nurse walked in, a covered tray in her hands.

“Lunch, dear.” She announced with a smile. She didn’t seem surprised that Joe was awake. Joe figured that Miles had told her. It was confirmed when she and Miles exchanged familiar pleasantries when she slid the tray on to the table.

“Thank you.” Joe said, sliding back into his bed.

“You haven’t opened that lid yet.” she replied sagely.

“I slept for twenty hours, I’d eat a shoe.” Joe’s stomach helpfully provided a burbling agreement.

“None of those available, I’m afraid. This will just have to do.” She smoothed the blankets over Joe’s legs and repositioned the drip.

  Joe smiled at her shyly.

“I’ll be back for that tray in half an hour. Let’s see if enthusiasm overcomes harsh, soggy reality.”

Joe eyed his tray warily before lifting the lid. He and Miles both peered into the plate beneath.

There was a long silence.

“I’ll go and get you a sushi. There’s a place just down the way…”

* * *

 

Kent stood in front of the simple, tasteful white door and collected his thoughts. He was about to go into Chandler’s flat. It seemed like a massive invasion of privacy for the man with so many hang-ups, but Kent supposed that ship had sailed when he had given in and read the second letter. He slipped the key into the lock, turned it and stepped inside the flat.

It was exactly like he expected it, and nothing like he had. There were clean, secure lines everywhere. The floor boards were stained a dark brown, a small mat sat at the front door to wipe feet, so Kent dutifully did before he walked further into the space. There was a warmer atmosphere to the place than Kent had expected, one wall in the living room was floor to ceiling with books, some poetry, some art, but most of it seemed to be fiction of indiscriminate genre. The outer wall of the flat here was all glass, letting a straining London sun into the room. A large television also occupied the shelves, perched in a built-in nook. There were also photographs positioned deliberately around; one of a stern man with Joe’s hair, nose and eyes, but lacking in his warmth. Kent assumed it was the late Chandler sr. Another had a picture of an older woman, her eyes focused on the middle distance. There was something familiar in the way she held her chin, so it must have been Chandler’s mum. 

The next picture Kent came across, as he headed for the bedroom was mildly unexpected. It was from Miles’ last birthday. Judy had taken a picture of the team, Mansell and Riley crouched in the front row with their arms slung over shoulders, Mansell a little worse for wear. Miles and Buchan stood shoulder to shoulder with a beaming Joe Chandler. Kent too had crouched for the photo. At the time he hadn’t registered the warm weight, but in the photo, Joe is resting a hand on his shoulder. Kent doesn’t want to wonder too long about what it means, he’s already put in place a strategy for this situation. One that might seem a little cowardly, but Kent isn’t willing to try any mumbled confessions or abortive conversations with Joe.

_Joe_.

_Joe probably wants some bloody clothes, Emerson_ , the DC thinks. So he finally enters the bedroom. The bed is made, neat and squared. The closet occupies the wall opposite. Kent slides open the door and gets to work.

 He checks his watch, they’ll need him at the hospital sooner rather than later.

 

* * *

 

Joe had laughed with the nurse when she returned and discovered an uneaten meal and an empty sushi container. He then allowed himself to be poked and prodded and checked. He had said an internal goodbye to Tristan when he was freed from the drip, and smiled when the IV stand wouldn’t behave for the nurse – Beverly – either.

Kent returned after the doctor had given the all-clear for Joe to leave.

“I brought you a razor, sir. I didn’t think you liked sporting the lumberjack look. And I found your comb.”

Joe took the canvas shopping bag offered to him and retreated into the bathroom.

Kent had picked out some beige trousers, a simple blue shirt and a soft, blue cashmere sweater. Someone had once told Joe that it brought out his eyes, and he wondered lazily if Kent had ever noticed as much. He shaved and brushed his teeth, delighted to find his toothbrush and toothpaste beside his cologne. Finally he emerged, showered, dressed and ready.

“Well, Riley and Mansell need me to finalise the booking paperwork for the other half of your synchronised swimming team,’ Miles said, ‘so, you can come back to the station with me for the next… twenty minutes before the end of shift, or, you and Kent could walk to the pub and we’ll meet you there when we’re through.”

Joe looked thoughtful.

“The day’s almost over, sir. Maybe you should just start fresh tomorrow?” Kent prodded gently.

“Alright. We’ll see you there, Miles… And don’t forget to invite Ed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Miles said in the tone of man who had been caught out as he left, pulling his phone out and holding it to his ear. Kent took the bag from Joe’s bed and gestured for Joe to leave first.

“Oh no, you first.” Joe demurred.

“I insist, Sir. Age before beauty.” Kent joked with more courage than he knew he had.

 

* * *

 

The night at the pub had been fun, at first Joe and Kent had spent the time having a quiet conversation, based mainly around Erica. Kent’s twin had texted him as they stepped into the pub, and her various follow-up texts to his hurried, one- or two-word replies had prompted the conversation about growing up a twin. For his part, Joe was fascinated. He’d always wanted a sister, and told Kent as much.

Kent spent a good three-quarters of an hour convincing him otherwise. He had a million stories of embarrassment and childish fighting, but Joe countered every one with a positive. Kent hadn’t realised that Joe could be quite so optimistic, and almost said so, but Buchan walked in and saved him from the imminent mouth/foot collision.

The others joined them soon after and the evening was short, but fun. It was a perfect bridge between the hospital and his desk the next morning.

 

* * *

 

Joe filled out a report on the impromptu swim he’d taken. He had left his coat at home, opting instead to wear a light jacket, and his usual white shirt and navy trousers. Commander Anderson called after lunch to check on him, and see if he needed anything. Joe appreciated it.

The day went quickly and smoothly. Everyone left on time at the end of shift.

Except Joe.

He took the opportunity to walk around the incident room, feeling grateful for this place, for the people in it. Some, including himself – once upon a time – might have seen his halted progress in the ladder as a failure. An abject defeat of the dreams his father had for him. But Joe knew that this was the best possible outcome.

His success was based on more than titles.

The warm feeling these thoughts brought stayed with him, all the way from the office, to Waitrose, and home. Even the rain hadn’t bothered him. He was content as he made himself a simple dinner and as he removed his tie. He flicked on the television and watched it absent-mindedly. Eventually his eyes wandered over the bookshelves, and snagged on the coat left on the coffee table.

Joe hadn’t put it away last night. He had left it where Kent had put it. It had nothing to do with the fact that it smelled like Kent’s washing powder.

But he supposed that now was as good a time as any to put it away. He pushed himself out of the couch, ignoring the old-man groan that he made with the movement. He picked up the coat, and felt the outline of the envelopes.

The letters.

His letter.

His letter about Kent.

His stomach dropped. Kent had dried out his things. Kent would have pulled the things from his pockets. Kent would have seen the letter.

_Fuck_.

He frantically searched for the papers, his hands blindly scrabbling over the lining. Finally he felt the right texture and pulled out the three letters that were in his pocket.

Two showed the unmistakeable sign of running ink and water damage.

The third was pristine, neat, and addressed to him. In Kent’s handwriting.

_  
Joe,_

_I know that I shouldn’t have looked. I shouldn’t have read something that you never intended me to see._

_But I’m glad I did._

_I had no idea that my sister’s ridiculous idea would be so effective. But apparently it was._

_And now I don’t know what to say._

_You’re in hospital and I’ve just dried your letter with my crappy old hair dryer._

_I have no idea where to go from here, Joe._

_I’m in love with you, I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me, and I am unable to do anything._

_I’m paralysed, Joe. I fear that if I did take action I wouldn’t stop until we were both sated and drowsy, with kiss-swollen lips and perhaps a lifetime ban from the hospital. And maybe a few regrets._

_I don’t want to cause that. I don’t want you to keep thinking that you’ll hurt me, or disappoint me, Joe. I’ve loved you from the moment you stood, a little defeated by the boys, and asked for chalk. I was gone the second you whispered my name in thanks._

_I know you, Joe._

_I see you. I see you when you’re being ridiculous. I see you when you’re being kind. I see you when you’re kind, brave, uncertain, drunk, remorseful and victorious - covered in your own blood after a scrap with a would-be Kray twin._

_I see you Joe. And I like what I see._

_So, maybe I should wait. Even though I fear it’s all I shall ever do._

_I’ll wait for you, Joe._

_I’ll be here when you’re ready._

_Love,_

_Em. x_  
  
Joe had no air left in his body. Everything had stopped.   
The world seemed to be freefalling, reality thrown into retrograde.

Until it hurtled forward again.

Joe grabbed his keys and, still clutching the letter, hurried into the watery night.

 


	5. Chapter Five: Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

“You found my second letter.” Kent breathed, as the wind blew into the open door, sending goosebumps over his torso. Joe’s eyes followed the shiver.

The moment stretched on, the rain fell, filling Kent’s nostrils with the clean, earthy smell of rain and Joe’s cologne. Finally, Joe took a deep breath, his adam’s apple bobbing while he found his voice.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” He whispered, as he stepped into the doorway proper, his wet, damp shirt pressing against the still-frozen DC’s torso. Kent shivered again, and licked his lip. He tried to take in a long shaky breath, to steel himself for the unbelievable moment when he got what he wanted, but he was interrupted halfway through by soft, insistent lips on his.

Joe was kissing him, and he kissed Joe right back.

The rain-soaked body that pressed against Kent’s bared flesh added an extra dimension of delicious sensation to the embrace, and Kent feared that it might be too much, that the moment might overcome him. Joe seemed to have the same idea, he stopped kissing and rested his forehead on Kent’s, his hands on either side of Kent’s face.

Joe’s eyes were trained on Kent’s clavicle, watching the rise and fall of the chest as though it could help him regulate his own breathing. He could see a fluttering at the base of Kent’s neck, the vein there pumping blood frantically. Joe wondered if it would help Kent formulate words better than he could. Finally, when it appeared it wouldn’t, Joe lifted his gaze to Kent’s. The younger man had a vague look of incredulity, his jaw slackened, his lips swollen and his cheeks warmed with a blush.

“May I come in?” Joe asked, loving the curve of Kent’s lip at the words.

“Where are my manners?” Kent stepped back to allow the DI entry to the hall.

“Perhaps you left them in your trousers, Em.”

Kent’s eyes darkened at the diminutive of his name, his eyes trained once again on Joe’s lips.

“Well, what are you going to do, Joe, just stand there and drip on my hall carpet?” It was more forceful than Joe would have expected. He had thought that Kent would be a yammering mess by now, but then he had assumed the same about himself, and that was so far untrue.

“What would you rather I do?”

“I want… I want to take you to bed, Joseph Chandler.” It pleased Joe to discover that the firmness of Kent’s last statement was bravado, bravado that seemed as though it would be short-lived.

Joe couldn’t verbalise a reply to that, so instead he just nodded dumbly.

Kent gently took his hand and led him upstairs.

Once they were in Kent’s room, the DC slowly peeled the wet layers off Joe’s muscular frame. When the shirt was off, Kent placed a gentle kiss at the bottom of Joe’s neck, a simple offering of purity while his hands gently worked Joe’s belt and flies open, and pushed his trousers to the floor. Kent didn’t step back right away. Didn’t rush to take in the sight of Joe in his pants. Instead he leaned into the older man and whispered a patient ‘are you sure’.

Joe responded by nuzzling Kent’s ear, finally mouthing the piece of skin behind the ear.

“I’m never sure about anything, Em. But I’m more certain that this is what I want than I’ve been about anything else. You weren’t the only one who was changed that day. When you handed me that chalk, I… You are beautiful Emerson Kent. I never imagined that you’d want me.”

Kent turned his head and caught Joe’s mouth with his. His tongue gently traced Joe’s bottom lip and when he spoke next it was halfway to a kiss, the feel of his lips moving over Joe’s making his words intoxicating.

“Joe… that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re everything I ever wanted, and more than I could have dreamed for. I’ll spend every day from now on showing you how much you mean to me, if you’ll let me.”

Joe made a broken noise, halfway between a sob and a moan and kissed Emerson. The younger man pushed him onto the bed, straddling him. They pressed together, their lips saying everything that words could not. Their hands mapped out the flesh, their eyes screwed shut, as though the sight of each other would spiral them into a sensory overload.

Finally, the exploration found their bodies aligned and desperate for friction. Joe experimentally thrust his hips up, the sound that he elicited from Kent encouraged him to repeat the action, this time with his hands on the slim waist. Kent thrust back in reply. Joe held on like this for a while, his hands making Kent seem small and delicate, while the other man’s responding onslaught belied his strength. The constricting underwear Joe wore would have to go, and he muttered as much through gritted teeth. Kent seemed to agree, somehow having the self-control the Joe lacked and stopping to pull his underwear, and then Joe’s off, dropping both pairs into a messy pile beside the bed.

“Will you need…” Kent reached for the bedside table and waved two foil packets at Joe, “For the clean-up? I… I don’t know how you… uh.” Once again Joe could only nod, now he could see all of Kent. His body was pale and slim, but the firm jut of Kent’s cock was slightly darker under the inky pubes, the blood colouring it slightly. Joe licked his lips. His hands had left a red mark on Kent’s hips and there was evidence of his want all over Emerson. He wondered faintly what he must look like when Kent was rolling latex onto his sensitive shaft. All thought left his mind when that happened, the animal part of his brain suddenly firing on all cylinders. He grappled with Kent, until the lithe frame was beneath him, and he found a delicious angle that had Emerson soon breathing an incantation of almost-recognisable syllables. Joe felt his release building, the feeling in his gut growing heavier and heavier as he began to lose his rhythm. Beneath him Kent stiffened, his voice suddenly nothing more than a broken moan. His orgasm made Kent even more beautiful than Joe had imagined, the brown eyes opened and trained on Joe’s, his flush from neck to temple and his mouth pulled back in a look of blissful absence. Joe buried his head in the crook of Kent’s neck and thrust twice more before his own peak. As his hips slowed, Joe kissed Kent’s neck and shoulders.   
  
“Oh, Em.” Was all he could say. They stilled, arms loosely entangled, allowing their heartrate and breathing to return to normal. Kent hummed in reply, his hands tracing lazy circles on Joe’s shoulders.

“Where’s your- ”

“The ensuite is just through that door.” Kent pointed vaguely to his right, “There are towels and soap in there.” He smiled as Joe left, looking as though he were about to fall asleep. Joe showered, and dried himself, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He looked younger than he remembered, and certainly happier. He couldn’t remember when he’d last smiled, and now he didn’t seem to be able to stop. Once he was done surveying himself, he wandered into Kent’s bedroom, expecting to find him asleep, instead the bed had fresh sheets on it, and Kent was gone.

“I was putting your thing in the washing machine. Hope you don’t mind, but I assumed you’d stay.” Kent said shyly as he entered the room, naked but nominally cleaner.

“Of course.” Joe said, hoping to rid Kent’s brow of the uncertain furrow that lurked there as soon as possible. Kent beamed.

“Right, well. I’m going to have a quick shower, and I’ll be back.” He kissed Joe quickly and was gone.

Joe climbed into the bed and picked up the book on the bedside table. He kept one finger in Kent’s page and began reading from the beginning, his left arm tucked up under his head. When it came time to turn the page, he decided he was too comfortable to move his left arm, so he merely closed his eyes and waited. He didn’t realise he had fallen asleep until Kent woke him, the younger man trying to get into the bed as gently as possible after reclaiming his book.

Joe smiled at him sleepily. Kent tucked himself into Joe’s side and smiled back.

“Night.”  


 

* * *

 

 

Joe awoke the next day in a strange bed, surrounded by a familiar scent.  
  


_Emerson_ , he thought happily, rolling over and expecting to find a sleeping Detective Constable. Instead he found another note.

 

_Joe,_

 

_It's alright, I've not gone far. Just put your clothes in the dryer and popped out for some milk. I thought it was more useful than sitting here and watching you sleep._  
  
I can't believe you're in my bed, Joe.  
I can't believe I've gotten out of it while you're in there. 

 

_I'll be back soon._

_I love you._

_Em. x_

 

Joe laid back in the bed, smiling at himself as he planned exactly how he would convince Emerson to always be there when he woke up. His lip curved up at the thoughts of the noises he would make Emerson make.

 

* * *

 

 At about eleven in the morning, Joe had headed over to the kettle. He was starving. He set about making himself a cup of tea.

Miles sidled over not much after, setting up his own mug by the boiling kettle.

"That's a nice shirt."

"Thank you Miles." Joe said, lost in thought as he stared into the middle distance.

"I liked it better yesterday." He poured water over granulated coffee.

Joe's gaze snapped to Miles.

"Ah. Now that got your attention." he looked at Kent, knowing Joe's eyes would follow. Kent was batting away Mansell's hand, the ginger detective seemingly trying to steal Kent's nose.

"About bloody time." he said as he poured his milk into the mug and stirred it. He left, shuffling carefully back to his desk so as not to spill the hot liquid. Halfway to his desk, he stopped and half-turned back to Joe.

"And 'ave a biscuit. You'll probably need your strength."

**Author's Note:**

> I may add a second chapter to this- perhaps Joe's fantasies after he gets home. 
> 
> (We all know how thoughts can chase themselves around that noggin of his.)
> 
> Thoughts?


End file.
